Beta Doesn't Mean a Bottom

Out of Script

Chapter 17

The scent of medicinal balm lingered faintly in the air, subtle enough to avoid suspicion but just strong enough to give the illusion of a lingering fever.

Lin Wanyue sat propped up in bed, swaddled in a neatly disheveled robe, legs crossed beneath the covers like a passive little patient. His face looked pale—thank the cold compress earlier—and his voice, when the housekeeper came in, was just weak enough to avoid questions but not bad enough to call a doctor.

“Your fever doesn’t seem worse, but I’ll bring porridge and tea,” she said, voice filled with worry.

Lin nodded without much energy. “Thank you.”

As soon as she left, he exhaled.

Act One, Scene Three: The Invalid.

It was tiresome pretending to be sick, but the payoff would be worth it. He had no intention of attending the gala tonight. And more importantly, Shen Qiao had to believe that he was too weak to go, too fragile to be paraded around.

The original Lin Wanyue would’ve been heartbroken to miss such a glamorous event. He would’ve begged to attend despite being ill, clung to Shen’s sleeve, pleaded to be photographed beside him. But the Lin Wanyue in this body was something entirely different.

And tonight, he wanted Shen Qiao to go alone.

Not just because it would trigger the first real ripple of deviation in the plot—but because it would plant doubt. About Lin’s priorities. About his place in Shen Qiao’s world. About what else might change.

He shuffled out of bed and moved to the living room couch, settling into a fresh blanket nest and sipping warm tea with a distant expression.

The housekeeper hovered nearby, still watching.

Good.

---

Around ten in the morning, Shen Qiao stepped out of his home office and approached silently.

“You’re not better yet?” he asked, his voice low, lined with concern.

Lin glanced up with a weak smile. “Still warm. But I’ll live.”

“You haven’t eaten.”

“I will later.”

Shen reached over and adjusted the blanket, tucking it higher around Lin’s shoulders. His touch was careful. Familiar.

“I’ll be out late tonight,” he said after a moment.

“For the gala?” Lin asked, feigning surprise.

Shen nodded.

Lin let the silence stretch before saying, “Your photos will look lonely this year.”

Shen’s hand stilled for a beat.

“They’re not important.”

“Mm. They never are,” Lin murmured, looking back at the steam curling from his tea, “until someone else’s hand ends up in the frame.”

A beat of silence passed between them.

“I’ll try to be back early,” Shen said at last.

“You don’t need to,” Lin replied lightly, turning away. “It’s work. Go make your appearances.”

Shen didn’t argue. He gave a small nod, then left to prepare.

---

By the time 5:30 p.m. rolled around, Shen was dressed and ready to leave.

His suit was sharp and black with the slightest sheen under warm light. Cufflinks glinted. Not a wrinkle dared exist. Lin, still nestled on the couch in his robe, looked over with mild disinterest.

He didn’t comment on the outfit. He didn’t reach out or offer any sentimental words. He simply watched as Shen paused in the hallway.

“Lock the door behind you,” Lin reminded him softly.

Shen hesitated. “If anything worsens, call me.”

“I’ll manage,” Lin said.

After a long pause, Shen finally nodded and left.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Lin sat still for several seconds. Then the blanket slid off.

He walked calmly into the kitchen and pulled out a leftover steamed bun, tossing it into the microwave. His back straightened. His feet were light. The fever act was done.

He ate half the bun while scrolling through his terminal—checking responses from photographers, updating modeling profiles, adjusting angles in reference shots.

By nine, the house was silent again.

Lin returned to the couch, lit only by the terminal screen, and curled back into his blanket—not because he was tired, but because it was routine.

Ten o’clock.

No messages.

Eleven.

Still none.

He should’ve expected that. In the original plot, this was the first night Shen didn’t come home.

He’d told Lin he’d be late, but he never returned. From that point on, the absences became more frequent. More prolonged. And then came the distance, the denial, and eventually the betrayal.

So when the front door opened at 12:43 a.m., Lin’s entire body went still.

Footsteps. The faint rustle of fabric. The quiet click of shoes being removed.

Lin turned his head.

Shen Qiao stood at the threshold, dressed exactly as he’d left—immaculate, calm, and very much sober.

“You’re awake,” Shen said, surprised.

“You’re early,” Lin answered, voice light.

Shen glanced at the time. “I didn’t feel like staying.”

No explanation. No press of cologne. No smell of alcohol. Just... him.

Lin blinked slowly, concealing the shift in his expression.

In the plot, he hadn’t come home.

In the plot, he’d stayed away.

“What, no champagne toast?” Lin asked dryly.

Shen walked to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and drank without responding. When he turned back, he looked at Lin as if debating whether to say something more.

“You should sleep in the room,” he said.

“You’re not going to the study?”

“Not unless you want me to.”

“…No.”

---

End of Chapter 17.